When the door slammed behind her and I heard her truck start up, I finally let out a sigh of relief and headed to my bedroom to strip my damn sheets. Luckily, my mother made sure I always had two sets of sheets. She said you always needed a backup. Like always, my mother was right.
Once I was done, I knew I’d wasted too much time. I would have to go to the stockyard first thing the next day. I had a man coming at four to look at a horse I was selling. I needed to get things cleaned up from our morning routine before he got here.
Major was walking up to the house from my parents’ place when I came back outside. “You not going to the stockyards?” he called out from down the hill.
“No, I’m waiting until tomorrow morning. Got that quarter I’m selling that I need to get cleaned up from her run this morning.”
Major nodded. “I’m headed out, then. Got to be in San Antonio tomorrow. Dad wants to meet with me.”
I didn’t envy him. His relationship with his dad had been shit ever since he slept with his stepmother last year. “Good luck,” was my only response.
He shot me a bird and headed back toward my parents’ house.
Grinning, I went to my truck and climbed inside.
I still couldn’t believe the stupid fuck had slept with his stepmom. Even if she was only three years older than him. Last I heard, she wasn’t his stepmom anymore. And the pre-nup she’d signed left her high and dry.
Reese
I had been very careful to stay downstairs and be quiet while cleaning. I didn’t want to wake up the woman all of Rosemary Beach had taught me to fear. But today I actually had something to clean; she was messy.
I spent more than an hour cleaning up what looked like a bottle of wine that had exploded all over the kitchen floor. Shards of glass littered the floor, and dry, sticky drink was all over the place. The cabinets, floors, counters—everywhere. Once I managed to get that mess cleaned up, I was able to clean the dishes and glasses I found littered around the downstairs.
Then I found piles of clothes on the laundry-room floor. Most of them looked clean, and I was sure most of them needed to be dry-cleaned. It looked like she had just dumped the contents of her luggage onto the floor. It took me another hour to sort the dry-cleaning from the regular laundry, and then I began washing a load of whites.
Once the downstairs was sparkling and I had the washing under control, it was past noon. I decided I could keep quiet and work on the rooms farthest from hers on the second floor. She would be asleep on the third floor. I knew which room was hers.
The bedrooms that had remained untouched were easy. I just had to dust and sweep and mop. Same routine. When I got to the game room, I cringed, thinking of the mirror I would have to tell her about. There were empty glasses in here, too. It looked like she might already know her mirror was missing. She must have had people in here. Scraps of food were scattered on plates, and the dregs of different alcoholic drinks were left in glasses. Garbage littered the floor.
The worst was the used condom in the corner beside the leather sofa. Gross. I put on the gloves I had bought when I had stitches and got a large wad of toilet paper before picking it up and disposing of the condom. At least the user had tied it off.
Once I finished in the game room, it was almost three. I was normally done by three, but I still had the upstairs to do. And she was still sleeping.
I went back downstairs, walked all the trash out, and put the recycling in the correct bins, then came back inside and was considering reorganizing her pantry when I heard footsteps on the stairs. Finally.
I straightened my clothes and tucked my loose hair behind my ears. When Nannette walked into the kitchen, she saw me and scowled, then tossed her hair over her shoulder. As I’d predicted, she was stunning. Long strawberry-blond hair hung down her back. She was barely covered up, in a short, silky black nightgown that showcased her perfect pale skin.
“You the housecleaner?” she asked, sounding pissed.
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied.
“Why are you still here? It’s after three. It always take you this fucking long?”
“I’m finished with everything but upstairs. I was waiting for you to wake up.”
She scrunched her nose at me. “Well, go clean it. I’m awake. Stop standing there gawking at me.”
I needed to tell her about the mirror, but she didn’t look like she wanted to chat just yet. So I hurried upstairs quickly and focused on cleaning everything I could. I didn’t want her to have one complaint. Other than the mirror.
It took me two more hours upstairs. She had left a wake of disaster in her room. It made the rest of her house look positively spotless.
When I was satisfied, I headed back downstairs to see her curled up on the sofa with the remote in her hand and a cup of coffee on the table beside her. She looked more awake now.
“Took you long enough. You’re slow. Speed it up, or you’re gone,” she snapped.
“I’m sorry. I will,” I replied, thinking it was unfair that she thought I could go any faster.
She rolled her eyes and dismissed me with a flick of her hand. I had to tell her about the mirror, though. It would keep me up nights worrying until I did.
“While you were gone, there was an accident when I was cleaning the windows in the game room. I fell, and the mirror beside the window overlooking the Gulf came down with me. It shattered, and the frame broke. I will pay for it out of my paycheck until it’s completely covered. I’m really sorry—”
“The hell you will. You’ll pay me right now. That mirror cost more than five thousand dollars. It came from Paris, as did most of the furnishings in this house.”
I didn’t have five thousand dollars. I had two thousand saved up right now, but that was it. How did one mirror cost so much? I hadn’t expected this. “I’m sorry. I don’t have that. I can give you two thousand right now and then work until it’s paid for. That’s the best I can do,” I explained, hoping this woman had some form of empathy in her.
She glared at me; those green eyes were taking no prisoners. I was in trouble. Serious trouble. “No, you won’t. I’ll contact the agency and have them pay me back. They sent me a moron, so they can pay for it.”
I had to sign a consent form when I started working for them that any damage that occurred was my responsibility. I just never imagined I would break a five-thousand-dollar mirror. “They won’t cover it. They’ll make me do it. It’s my responsibility. All I have is—”